Chapter Text
Poe Dameron wasn't so sure he would end up being successful at this whole "spy" thing.
When Leia had first suggested that he should be the one to go under cover in the nascent threat of the First Order, Poe had objected strenuously.
"I've already done the whole under cover thing," he had told Leia. "To be honest, I wasn't great at it." He had winced, thinking about his time with the Kijimi Spice Runners. That whole thing had been... less than ideal.
"Poe, we don't have any other good candidates for this," Leia had told him, staring him down. Her brown eyes were always sharp, but right then they had seemed to pierce him through, down to his very soul. Or something. "Whoever we send has to be a great pilot, or they'll wash out of the First Order within days. And you're our best."
"What about Soont? Or Rik?"
"They're not human. From our reports, the First Order is pretty racist towards non-humans," Leia had said. "And that's not really something Soont or Rik could fake."
Poe sighed. He couldn't argue with that.
"And how will I get outta there, once I grab the intel we need?" he had asked. "I suppose I just fly away?"
Leia had looked at him patiently. "Ideally, yes, you'd find some fancy ship with hyper capability and get the hell out. That doesn't sound so hard. Does it?"
Back then, it had seemed like a reasonable assignment. Or -- almost reasonable.
Reasonable enough.
I'm not so sure this is reasonable anymore, Poe thought as he reported to his assignment on his first day of pilot duty on board one of the FO's flagships, the Finalizer. It was a mammoth thing, black as the night sky, wedge-shaped and distressingly huge.
He was just one tiny cog in a vast machine. The First Order was far larger and more organized than it had any right to be. It wasn't even based on a planet! The New Republic Navy, where Leia had recruited him from, was probably bigger, but they were based in the Hosnian system, and had been around for hundreds of years.
The First Order had apparently sprung into existence, like, last week or something.
Poe couldn't help but compare it with how Leia's ragtag guerilla group was doing. The Resistance needed to scrounge and beg for supplies as simple as bacta cream. Meanwhile, this -- First Order had risen out of literally nowhere, and now could apparently afford anything they wanted?
It was bantha shit, as far as Poe was concerned.
They had forged an identity chip to get him on board such an important ship -- a risky move, but a necessary one. If he had merely presented himself to a First Order recruitment drive on some Outer Rim planet, he'd be lucky to ever see a flagship like the Finalizer across the sky from whenever he ended up getting posted. Maybe they'd assign him to be a sanitation worker on some much less important ship, where his efforts to gather intel would go nowhere.
No, he had to be embedded deep in one of the most important locations, with enough access to -- theoretically, at least -- gather something worth gathering.
The pilots enjoyed more leisure and perks than other FO members on board. They had their own sleeping berths with at least a bit of privacy. That was not the case for the storm troopers, who slept in barracks, or pods, or giant cuddle piles -- Poe wasn't quite sure. From the weird way they all seemed bonded to others in their immediate unit, Poe might have actually put money on the cuddle pile.
So he couldn't complain about his sleeping berth. He had enough room to stretch out and reacquaint himself with his hand at the end of a long day. There wouldn't be any opportunities for intimacy here, and Poe had quite a few physical needs that wouldn't be met until this was all over. But that was all right. Poe and his hand were old friends.
The ships he got to fly were top of the line, at least. But they were soulless. Interchangeable. He never got to fly the same TIE twice -- or, if he did, he would never be able to tell. Any hint of individuality was ruthlessly cleaned and polished out of them between test runs. And there was no BB-8, chirping happily when Poe made a cool maneuver.
The tactics they were taught were so basic, Poe wanted to just kill himself so it would all be over. He had moved beyond drills like this when he was still small enough to fly from his mom's lap. If these pilots, and this training, were the best the FO could offer -- well. They might have the gear and the funding, but they definitely did not have the skills or the creativity.
Poe kind of wanted to go up against them in a dogfight. Show them how things could be done, if you only had the imagination and the will to do it.
The food was beyond awful. Protein cubes of questionable origin. Bland nutritional paste. Sour drinks, meant to rebalance his body's salt balance. Poe found himself dreaming of the foods of his upbringing, back on Yavin 4. Now that was worth dreaming about.
Poe fell into a routine, but no matter how many people he charmed, and no matter how innocently inquisitive he was, not a whiff of anything intel-worthy crossed his path.
All he could figure out was that they were working on something big. People kept getting moved around, reassigned. He didn't have a full picture, but it seemed like a bunch of FO resources were going towards -- something.
No one ever talked about it. No one seemed to know anything. And if he asked too many more questions, he would start casting suspicion on himself.
Poe was getting discouraged. He wondered how long he should give things before bailing out and returning in disgrace to tell Leia he had failed.
But no. He couldn't give up so soon. He had to just stick with it. The Force would find him a way.
At least, that's what he wanted to think.
One morning, he and the other pilots were gathered for an inspection.
"Who's the brass?" Poe asked his neighbor.
The guy next to him, a guy named Aguro Keithel who had literally no imagination in the cockpit, had widened his eyes. "It's General Hux, you idiot. The young one."
"Right," Poe said. Apparently he was already supposed to know this.
The young one. So, they mean like -- 60?
All the other pilots were lined up and obviously on their very best behavior. Poe tried his best to blend in. At least he was human, like everyone else -- that helped.
The lack of non humans in the FO still got to him. Why was everyone in the Order a kriffing human? It still didn't make sense to him. Selonians have better reflexes; shouldn't they be recruiting pilots from there?
"General on deck," the quartermaster had announced, and Poe had straightened up, wanting to look identical to everyone else.
Success Through Consistency, one of their bits of propaganda had said.
The General strode briskly down the line, flanked by two staff members. Poe caught a glimpse out of the corner of his eye and barely resisted turning his whole head to stare.
This man was tall. Young, about Poe's own age.
And oh, no. He was hot.
What is such a young man doing as a General? Poe wondered, consciously focusing his eyes back in front of himself. Aren't all the higher-ups ancient? With their glory days back pre Battle of Yavin?
The man was getting closer. Poe's heart rate kicked up and his mouth went dry.
Great. The first attractive person I've seen in the First Order, and it's my kriffing General.
Poe couldn't believe his own taste sometimes.
As the man got closer, Poe worked harder to suppress any hint of non-FO tendencies in himself.
I am a cog in the machine, he thought, focusing his will on projecting sheer boringness.
Order Through Discipline. Control Through Restraint. Freedom Through Service.
Now the General was in front of him. He was significantly taller than Poe. Slim, pale, haughty. Posture ramrod-straight, and with hair like a supernova and pale eyes that passed over Poe as though he didn't even exist. No -- as though he did exist, but was found to be sadly wanting.
Hux gave a slight sniff. Poe wasn't sure whether he had found something to disapprove, or whether he was coming down with something -- although the sterile systems of a large ship like this kept colds and flus to a minimum.
"Pilot Bejo Sprax," the General said. His voice was as cold as a balmy summer night on Hoth.
"Yes sir!" Poe responded with his best military attitude.
"Your hair is out of regulation."
"Yes sir." Poe bit back a wince. He had known he was getting a little shaggy, but he had put off getting a haircut for just one more day, then just one more day, then just one more day --
"Report to my office at fifteen hundred hours for discipline," the General commanded.
"Yes sir," Poe said, on autopilot.
Wait. That wasn't normal. Generals didn't order lowly pilots to their offices for petty discipline.
Did they?
The General was already far down the line when Poe's mind came back online.
This could actually be a big break for him. No matter what the reason, he'd actually be in a General's office, where -- presumably -- he might come across important intel that the Resistance could use. Maybe he'd find out what their big secret project really was.
If anyone knew, it was General Hux. He seemed to be playing the First Order politics game and actually winning, based on his advanced rank at such a young age.
So, I just have to report for discipline, whatever that turns out to be, and try to ingratiate myself with this guy, Poe thought. If I can get myself invited back, I can sniff around. See what I uncover.
Poe was feeling pretty good about his chances to make something happen here.
Pretty good indeed.
He reported to General Hux's office precisely at the assigned time. A staff member with dark hair let him in, then returned to a smaller desk at the back of the room.
General Hux was standing behind his much larger desk. A floor-to-ceiling length of transparisteel stretched behind him, showing off the distant, glimmering stars. It was almost like being out there in space.
"You wanted to see me, sir," Poe said, saluting.
"At ease." Hux leaned forward slightly and stared Poe up and down.
"Mitaka, you're dismissed," he told the dark-haired man, who got up, collected his data pad, and left the room with no further ado.
"Sprax," Hux said. "An interesting name. Nevarrian?"
"I'm from Castilon, sir," Poe replied. He had memorized all the facts about his cover identity, but he hoped Hux wouldn't quiz him on it too much. His understanding of Castilon's political situation was incomplete.
Then again, people tended to assume Poe was pretty but dumb. He could lean into the himbo stereotype to get out of any questions he wasn't sure of.
"Hmm." Hux's gaze raked over him again. It made Poe start to feel a certain kind of way. The certain kind of way that he felt when a hot guy was checking him out.
Focus, Poe, he thought. This is not a hookup situation.
I mean, I wouldn't mind if it were, another part of his brain supplied.
"Your hair is still out of regulation," Hux announced.
"Uh, yeah, I didn't have time --"
"I didn't say you could speak," Hux countered.
"Sorry, sir," Poe ventured.
"I didn't say you could speak there, either. I don't enjoy repeating myself, as a rule."
Kriff. He sounded angry, maybe. Poe couldn't really tell, because this guy's control over his face seemed absolute. But he was definitely sitting on some big emotion. Maybe disdain.
I don't look that bad, Poe wanted to object. In his own personal opinion, his hair looked pretty good. It was a crime how short these FO guys wanted to cut it.
Poe knew better than to say anything at this point.
"I believe you are aware of the standard punishment for out of regulation hair," General Hux said. "Yes?"
Poe wracked his brains for any hint of what this guy was talking about. Standard punishment? What standard punishment?
None of the FO manuals he'd been forced to read covered anything like this.
But if he paused any longer, Hux would be onto him.
"Of course, sir," Poe replied smoothly. Whatever it turned out to be, it couldn't be that bad. It was only hair, after all. They couldn't punish him too bad over something as small as his hair.
"Then assume the position," Hux said, picking up his data pad and flicking things off the screen in different directions.
Ooooh. His data pad. I bet that has all the intel I could possibly want, Poe thought. If I steal that, Leia would be so proud of me!
Then the words Hux had just said penetrated his mind.
'The' position? What is 'the' position?
"Well?" Hux said, setting the pad down and glaring. "I'm a very busy man, Sprax. I don't have all day to waste disciplining pilots who are too vain and lazy to see to their personal appearance."
"Pardon me, General, but I'm still new to this ship," Poe ventured. "You may do things differently here than they did at my previous posting, and I don't want to offend."
Hux sniffed, and Poe found himself staring at his nose. It was pale and patrician, like the rest of him.
Like all the rest of him, part of Poe's mind supplied. Even --
No, Poe thought back at that part. Bad dog. Down.
"I'm quite certain that the punishment for a first time hair offense is standard across all First Order ships," the General said. His usually icy tone of voice had plunged to a level of warmth only slightly above absolute zero. "Hence the phrase 'standard punishment.' I find it hard to believe that anyone who served on board the Thresher, as your file indicates you did, would be unaware of such a basic protocol."
Poe tried not to gulp. They had picked the Thresher to be his cover's previous ship partly because it was apparently out on a long mission in the opposite direction, so any gaps in people who remembered pilot Bejo Sprax would go unnoticed. At least until his mission was complete.
"Of course, sir," Poe said. There really was nothing else for it but to play along and hope Hux gave him a hint about what he was supposed to do. "Where would you like me to -- assume the position?"
That sounds so dirty, the unruly part of Poe's mind saw fit to chime in.
Settle down, Poe thought back at himself. Don't be that guy.
Cripes, it had been a long time for him, if he was getting this hot and bothered over -- whatever was about to happen.
"Over my desk, obviously," the General said. He opened a drawer and took out a wooden paddle.
Both Poe's rational mind and his horny mind went blank.
"Well? Get to it," Hux snapped, looking bored.
This must be normal here, Poe thought, stepping forward. He's acting like it's all part of his day-to-day. A totally routine and usual course of action. Something that he finds annoying at best.
Not something dirty or scandalous. Just a normal punishment.
That thought gave him the courage to walk behind Hux's desk. And now, he was just an arm's length from the data pad.
Of course, he couldn't see a thing on its screen from this angle. And he'd never be able to grab it and get off the ship without being caught. Not even if he knocked Hux out.
His thoughts of stealing the data pad were cut short when Hux grabbed his left shoulder and pushed him forward. Poe was too surprised to resist. Not that resisting would be wise right now.
He needed to pretend that he knew what was going on.
"That's at least slightly better," Hux said from above and behind him. His gloved hand pushed in between Poe's shoulder blades, grinding him forward onto the desk.
Huh. These First Order people are way kinkier than I ever knew, Poe thought.
A crack of pain bloomed along one butt cheek as Hux struck him with the wooden paddle.
Poe hissed in surprise. That had come out of nowhere.
"Count them, Sprax," Hux said from behind him.
"Uhhhh. One, sir," Poe said. He was splayed out on the large wooden desk, face down, his ass hanging off the side. At this angle he could only see the bare surface of the desk, stretching away from him like the surface of a planet he was flying over.
Another bloom of pain, on the opposite cheek this time, joined the first.
Hux hit hard; harder than Poe would have thought from someone who looked so physically fragile. He was a wisp of a man, slender enough that Poe could probably pick him up easily.
"Two, sir," Poe said. Now that he had thought of the idea of picking up Hux, it wouldn't leave his mind. He couldn't help imagining what it would be like to grab under those svelte thighs and hoist the taller man up, yanking his long, long legs around Poe's waist so he could pin him to the wall, feeling the slight, hot weight of him as he ground himself forward.
Hux laid a third strike on him, and then a fourth, and Poe dutifully counted them out. His ass was feeling warm and tingly. Those feelings, plus the inappropriate visions in his head, were causing a very predictable result in the front of his pants.
Every blow slid him slightly forward on the smooth-grained wooden surface of the desk. In the seconds between blows, Poe's body slid back, only to be jolted forward again.
The stimulation on his rapidly swelling cock was causing even more of a situation.
Kriff. If an over-the-desk paddling was considered normal here, then Poe would look like a total pervert if he stood up with a raging boner.
How long did he have to make it go away?
He thought about boring things, like the protocols he had been forced to memorize for keeping his berth clean and tidy. He thought about annoying things, like how he wasn't allowed to fly any way except the ways their extremely basic manuals prescribed. He thought about disgusting things, like how Aguro definitely picked his nose.
None of it did any good. He was still hard, and getting harder. How long did he have now? It had already been fourteen strikes.
He had no idea how many strikes the First Order would consider normal for a haircut violation. Poe really needed to review all his manuals when he got back to his sleeping berth. He must have missed the section on getting paddled by one's superior officer.
He sure acts like he's superior, Poe thought, taking more strikes and counting them aloud. Hux was distant. Cold. Not even caring enough about Poe to be cruel to him. He acted like paddling Poe's ass was just a routine. Like it was one of the many distasteful tasks he was forced to do as General of such a large ship.
How many other people had Hux disciplined this way in the past, for it to not even register as unusual or special in any way?
Poe was flushed and panting with arousal and pain. Paddling him couldn't be that much of a chore for the General. In fact, the more Poe thought about it, the more he was getting kind of offended at how Hux didn't even care about this.
Poe happened to think he had a pretty nice ass. He had received many compliments on it over the years -- words like 'luscious,' 'firm yet plush,' and 'eminently grippable ' being some of the standouts.
So paddling him should be kinda nice, right?
"Twenty, sir," Poe said. His ass was officially on fire.
Ow. Sitting down in the cockpit the next time he had to fly was going to be a special journey.
No more hits came.
"Well? Get up, Sprax," the General said. "This isn't one of your beauty sleep sessions."
Poe blushed. Apparently General Hux had been told about that one time he had found a handy spot to take a little nap.
He stood up, trying to be subtle about adjusting himself. From the direction of Hux's eyes, he figured he had failed.
"I need hardly tell you to see to your hair immediately, so we don't have to repeat this unfortunate incident," Hux said. Yeah, he was definitely looking at Poe's package.
And that was humiliating, too. What was wrong with Poe, that he was getting aroused by this whole scenario? Apparently they did this sort of thing in the First Order all the time and no one got off on it.
Kriff. I'm such a pervert, Poe thought. From the iciness of General Hux's demeanor, Poe thought he would probably agree.
"Yes sir," Poe replied, returning his salute to the best of his ability. He felt flushed and disordered, half undone just from a totally normal method of discipline.
It was normal. Totally normal.
Right?
Back in his sleeping berth later, Poe relived his twenty strikes. In his imagination, things turned out very differently from how things had happened in real life.
In his imagination, the icy General had thawed, overcome with lust for Poe's juicy ass, and had stripped off his gloves so he could get his hands involved up close and personal. Apparently Poe's pants were rip-away in this particular fantasy, because the next second, he was imagining pale, long-fingered hands kneading and caressing his bare flesh before returning to their work of spanking him five ways from next week.
Poe groaned, reaching underneath himself with one hand to get that feeling of a naked hand on his flesh, gripping and pulling at his cheek. His other hand worked his cock urgently. He clenched his eyes closed, imagining himself spread out over that desk, exposed and helpless, with the most powerful man on the ship worshipping his ass, breathless and overcome with lust.
Maybe the General just wouldn't be able to control himself once he'd gotten a handful or two, and would pull his long elegant cock out and stroke himself roughly, the way Poe was doing right now. Maybe the door would open suddenly and that aide from before would freeze in the doorway, aghast at his superior officer's breach of protocol.
Maybe the General make eye contact with his aide and come all over Poe's ass, marking Poe as his special toy.
Poe groaned, feeling his orgasm rush up. He clenched his butt cheeks desperately, feeling them burn with the aftermath of the thorough paddling he'd received earlier that day.
The pleasure of that orgasm was far too exciting. It was way more intense than Poe's usual fantasies. In fact, he could already tell this particular fantasy was dangerously addictive.
He should get a haircut and make sure he never got into a similar position in the future.
That would be the responsible thing to do.
Then again, I was awfully close to that data pad, he pondered, sighing as he grabbed a couple tissues to clean himself up.
Spying for the Resistance was dangerous work. The Order kept excellent records. It was only a matter of time before someone figured out his identity.
Poe needed to get some good intel and get out, the quicker the better.
Those were all excellent reasons why he couldn't help but think, as he drifted off to sleep --
Maybe I could find some way to get punished again.